Sweet Nothings
by Sauri
Summary: Collection of stories. Also known as the thousand ways one can fall in love.
1. bargaining conditions

Another take on Gray's answer at the end of this arc.

Also, I will probably use this title as an archieve for my short one-shots from here on. Irregular updates, though.

 **Disclaimer:** Fairy Tail belongs to Hiro Mashima. I win nothing by writing this thing.

* * *

 **bargaining conditions**

 _Where Gray is too old for dolls and plushies; Juvia disagrees._

Gray is nervous. Sort of. He can admit that to himself.

He has not _planned_ this, exactly—hasn't planned anything beyond surviving the war, winning it— but the idea's been there since a while now. Since quite a long while, actually. He can admit that, too. He has been doing that a lot, admitting things he wouldn't have admitted in another time.

It takes a bit of time, a bit of bravado, a bit of alcohol, but he does.

And Gray is sure it has to count for _something._

So he makes up his mind, chucks down a whole glass of whiskey and saunters through the after-party and the drunken mates towards Juvia.

He doesn't stop.

(Except he does, for a second—then Juvia looks up and at him, because she always, always finds him, somehow, and he says _fuck it._

He's doing this.)

. . .

"Juvia doesn't… understand."

"What's there not to understand?"

"That's not it," she mutters. "Juvia's asking if Gray-sama is _sure_."

Gray scoffs, frowns, lowers his hand and the key. Juvia fidgets, uneasy. He wasn't expecting this—she disbelieving, and it occurs to him that he might screwed up somewhere along the line. Maybe he's a bit too late and a bit too arrogant. Maybe he's doing this all in the wrong way although that wouldn't have mattered because they, _this_ whatever it is, has always been done in the wrong way and it's _worked._

(Gray discovers he doesn't care either way. He'll do what he really wants to do and that's that.

Right now, he wants to press _on_.)

"Yeah, sure. I wouldn't ask if I _wasn't_ ," he says, and hands over the key again. "It's not like, say, we haven't done this before. We already lived together for half-year, it's nothing _new_ , nothing _different,_ and… I'm asking, no?"

Juvia smiles. She smiles, soft and excited and red, and he inflates—not sure why, he just does, and his shoulders feel light. He feels proud and flustered suddenly, looking at her hopping on her own seat, looking how hopeful she looks, looking how _thrilled_ she is. He feels _alive_.

"Gray-sama is."

"I am."

She snatches the key from him. "Juvia wasn't expecting this," she croons, biting down on her lower lip. "Juvia expected confessions and promises and flowers. But she thinks this might be fine, too. She likes it."

Gray hums. "Good." He holds up his hands. "So—that's a yes?"

Juvia looks at him slyly. "Only if Gray-sama buys the flowers. Juvia really wants them."

. . .

He buys her carnations and roses.

Juvia puts them in a pretty china base as soon as she moves in, sets them in the coffee table for the world to see.

She also brings plushies that find their way into their bed and swirly, useless ornaments that Gray doesn't know what to think about, and he realizes that he was wrong—it's _different._ He's all of a sudden aware of it now, aware of that sharing a house with Juvia Lockseris completely different from _living with_ her, and it scares the shit out of him.

It's good, though—good the feeling and good the company, and Gray's…happy.

Honest to god happy he hasn't felt like in a long time.

Well—mostly.

"We will _not_ have dolls of _myself_ lying around, Juvia. No way in _hell_."

"But they are Juvia's," she argues. "What is she supposed to do with them?!"

Gray chokes. "Throw them out, maybe?"

The look she gives him is absolutely _withering,_ and the first time he sees it directed to _him_.

"Juvia will not, under any circumstance, throw them out," she says, severely. "They're Juvia's creation—Juvia's children! That'd be _immoral._ "

"That makes it creepier, actually."

Juvia huffs. "Gray-sama."

" _Juvia_. They have _my_ face."

Her eyes narrow when he crosses his arms, and her lips quiver when he frowns. It's not a look Gray's particularly seen before, but it's almost enough to disarm him—to make feel him bad.

Except he can't—she gets up from the chair, goes to the door and has the last word.

"No," she says and leaves their home to go who knows where.

Gray's left with a half-decorated living room and a good deal of closed packages, a burning sensation in his stomach that doesn't go away even when a hour passes. He's frustrated, he knows, so he does the next best thing and kicks the table.

"Bullshit."

. . .

It's almost night when Gray gets out to search for Juvia, and the moon is high when she finds her. Magnolia Square is cold and empty when he arrives, and he finds her sitting over the fountain, shivering. She also has one of those dammed dolls with her—it rattles him.

It takes Gray three breathes, a sigh, before he approaches her.

"Why did I know you'd be here."

Juvia looks up, smile weak, and shrugs. "…because Gray-sama loves Juvia?"

Gray pauses.

He…lets that slide.

"Let's go home," he decides to say instead. "I'll let you keep the dolls if that makes you happy. Just keep them away from the bed."

"Thank you."

She doesn't move. It's strange.

(She's strange—always been. But there's something now, something there, different from her usual self.

Gray feels kind of lost.)

"O-kay." He sits down next to her. "What's with this?"

She sniffs. "Juvia doesn't follow."

"You've been fingering that doll, which is, by the way, hella _weird_ , since I got here," he says. "So what's up with them?"

Juvia sighs without spirit, turns to him and takes the doll with his face within both hands. "Juvia made them. They're _hers_." Her frown is dark and trembling, and looks up with eyes so dim that Gray can only read the plea on them. "Juvia made them because she felt it'd be a way to have Gray-sama with her. Before. Juvia knew— _knows_ Gray-sama's going to be with Juvia always, as a friend. But… but that isn't the same from what Juvia wants."

Oh.

"Oh." He makes a noise and swallows the lump in his throat. He is blushing, pretty sure of that. "But you got me, _as in_ flesh and bones, here. Now. No need for those dolls anymore."

"Juvia knows."

"So."

Silence.

Gray fidgets.

"S'okay if you don't wanna answer."

She shakes her head earnestly. "No. Juvia wants to do this" she says, breathes in deeply. It takes one, two, three seconds. "Juvia doesn't want to throw them because they're insurance."

He blurts. "What?"

"In case… in case Gray-sama doesn't…" She blushes a deep red, and Gray knows her enough, has seen her blush enough, to know that it's not out of shyness, but shame. "In case it doesn't work out."

"In case _we don't work out, you mean_?" Gray rasps out.

His tone is a lot harsher than what he intends to, and she flinches away from him, but it _chills_ him to the bone.

Juvia's always been positive, upbeat, absolutely lively—she never ever would consider failure, not with him, never with him, and it _hurts_ that she's _considering_ now. It hurts because, in some ways, he cannot blame her.

Cannot blame her when he's indecisive even now, even when he asked her to come live with him, because it's true and it's been so long for her, probably, which is ten things of fucked up, and—

Gray groans.

This wasn't what he'd hoped, at all.

And worst of it is that he could fix it, right then and there, just by telling her what she needs to hear, but he still wouldn't.

He cannot do this.

He knows.

He just cannot say it _yet._

Instead: "I'm sorry."

"Gray-sama shouldn't apologize," she says in a beat. "Juvia _is_ being irrational."

His head shakes. "You aren't. That's the problem."

"Hmm."

Gray pauses, huffs and decides.

"Gimme that."

She looks up with wide eyes. "The doll?"

"Yeah, the doll." She gives it to him, and he takes a moment to inspect the carefully made stitches, the good quality of the fabric, the smell of her on it, and his chest _tightens_. "Let's do this. You can keep this one. The rest? You throw them out."

"But—!"

" _And_. You create another one, like this one. But it's going to be a doll of _you_. With your face," he says firmly. "And once you do that, we'll put them on a shelf at home, together. I think that's something we can do."

When he finishes, Juvia is mute. Her eyes blown wide apart, mouth open and she sits very, very still. For a moment, Gray fears the worst—fears that he's miss stepped, that it's not _enough_ , that he cannot fix this like he has hoped to do. Then she takes the doll from him, cleans out the dust until it's all prim and looks at him with curved lips and blissful eyes, and Gray unwinds.

Her smile is tiny, but so promising there's no mistaking it. It reaches her eyes, makes wrinkles appear around them, and there's something there that absolutely tugs at his heartstrings in all the right ways.

Gray holds his breath.

"Juvia'd like that," she says at last.

He sighs in relief.

"Nice."

She giggles. "Juvia thinks this is our first argument."

Gray blinks. "Uh. You right. It is."

He smiles. She smiles.

There is another blush on Juvia's cheeks, still red, but this one reaches her ears and Gray knows which blush this is. He has seen it too many times not to know. She even squirms as if holding herself back would make her combust right there—the not-so-subtle side glances she sends him being hard to miss, too.

Juvia looks at him, hopeful.

Gray rolls his eyes.

"Just _do it_ ," he says, opening his arms. "I haven't ever stopped you before, I'm not gonna start stopping you now. Not like I could."

The squeal is _loud._ Her hands are around him in an instant, her head tucked under his chin, and Gray's pretty sure he's going to get a bruise from that.

It's good, though— feels good, at least, so he doesn't mind much.

What he'll mind is _Natsu_ 's reaction once he finds there are forsaken _dolls_ of them hanging out in their apartment. Gray can already imagine the mockery and the laugh and _all the teasing_ he is definitely not looking forward to, and cringes. Hard.

Juvia hums in pleasure.

But—

But he's pretty _sure_ he's _in love_ with this woman.

He can admit that to himself— or has been trying to for a while now.

So.

He's ready to deal with the teasing. It'll be worth it.


	2. all you have to do

Actually, I headcanon that Gruvia would have their own children AND adopted ones. But using that for writing means I gotta create _another_ child.

Fuck that noise.

p.d. this thing with just a couple of days difference between updates? Do _not_ get used to it. It won't happen again. Like, ever.

* * *

 **all you have to do**

 _He is the most beautiful little boy Juvia's ever seen, and he is to become_ her son _._

Juvia is _restless_ when the lacrima phone rings. She is not quick enough answering it, and the handle almost drops from her hands.

She inhales, and stutters: "This is Juvia Fullbuster."

 _"Miss Fullbuster, this is Charlie. I call to let you know we will be arriving in the afternoon."_ On the other side of the line, there's a noise. Juvia's breathing stops. " _Will you or your husband be at home?"_

"Y-yes! Juvia will be waiting." She swallows. "She'll inform Gray, too!"

The line reverberates with a laugh.

 _"Miss Fullbuster, calm down. Everything will be alright."_

She sighs. "Juvia knows. She's just…a tad nervous."

 _"That's good. And Miss?"_

"Yes?"

 _"Congratulations."_

 _. . ._

They try.

 _Gods,_ do they try. For a long time at that, but it doesn't mean they _can_ —and it breaks her heart.

She cries rivers when it's confirmed, and she cries even more when it _downs_. Gray is with her for every step, and he doesn't exactly cry like her _,_ but there is a palpable air of _something_ that signals he isn't happy with it either. There's gloominess in their home that spills out to where their friends can see although they don't comment.

They do recover, however, with time—not unscathed, but they do.

With a lot of time.

It's four months after that when Gray comes home with pamphlets and guides and booklets, drops them in the table and looks at her with a smirk. Juvia starts.

"I've been looking around a bit," Gray says. "It's going to be expensive and, like, incredibly _long_ , but I think we… can manage, you know?"

Juvia takes one of the guides, skims over it and her hands tremble when she looks up at the love of her life—she has _hoped_ , and maybe this is the answer.

"Is Gray sure?"

"Yeah, sure." He nods. "As long as you're ready, too."

"Juvia is if Gray is with her."

He huffs. "I gotta say that it…might not end well. There's nothing _fixed,_ and maybe this is a bit too soon— _"_

She holds his hand, squeezes it. "Is Gray trying to dishearten Juvia? Because he's failing."

"I'm just _warning,_ " he answers with a scowl. "I want you to be sure, _really_ sure, after—after the medics and all _that_."

He glares, not at her, exactly, and silently demands an answers. Her shoulders square up.

"Juvia is sure."

He pauses. Then: "It's also a _long_ process."

"Juvia's very patient." She smiles, and it's the first one that feels real in a long while. "Juvia was very patient with Gray, wasn't she?"

He snorts. "True." He sits down next to her, points at the flood of papers with the words _adoption_ scrawled in big letters _._ "So, do we? We are into this, right?"

Juvia sniffs, quickly opens the first book from the very first page and _reads_.

"Undoubtedly," she says.

Gray beams.

. . .

He storms in, grabs her arms and his face contorts into a grimace that is a midway between a smile and a frown.

"You shoulda called me sooner!"

"And Juvia tried, but Gray didn't answer the phone!"

He huffs, strips, scowls. "Okay. Good." He sighs. "They coming in few hours, right?"

She nods. "Yes, and Gray should at least keep himself _clothed_."

He glares. "Look who is talking."

So Juvia does, sees that her top is missing, and squeals. She scrambles around for her shirt before pushing Gray around to do the same. Only when he yells in protest she stops _moving,_ and laughs as an apology—it sounds histrionic.

"Juvia's really nervous."

"No kidding."

She grins. "But she's very excited, too."

"I know," he sighs with something akin to bliss. "I know."

The silence is comforting. It has taken them a year of counseling and examinations and measurings, but they're already in track. Juvia checks if the room is ready, checks if the toys are ready, checks everything is all right and in place and done.

She only has to wait now.

She sighs.

Then, Gray adds, "Although it sucks we gotta wait like this."

. . .

He is _exactly_ like she remembers him to be—brown, curly hair that's a bit too long, small frame of a child with chubby hands and big, dazzling eyes of such a bright green that makes her want to hug him. He does not look even remotely like her or Gray, but—

But he is the most beautiful little boy Juvia's ever seen, and he is to become _her son_.

"Yukine, remember Miss and Mister Fullbuster?" Charlie prompts. "They're the ones who visited you awhile ago."

Yukine just nods, still standing next to Charlie's legs and clutching at his seal doll with all the force a four-year-old can muster. Juvia coos; Gray rolls his eyes. He crouches down.

"Hey, there." He waves, tone friendly and expression even friendlier. "It's nice to see you again." Gray tugs her down with him. "She's happy to see you, too."

"Juvia really is." She beams. "Juvia 's also happy to see Yukine's seal."

The child blinks, and brings the doll closer to the chest. "His name's Shiru."

Her smile brightens. "That's a pretty name."

Charlie coughs, takes out documents from the bag and hands them to Gray. "We can leave the papers for tomorrow, I think," he says gently. "I'll come back to see if Yukine is adapting well and inform you about how we will proceed from here on."

Gray grabs the documents and Yukine's bag, and smiles sincerely.

"Thank you."

"Well, for now get to know each other." Charlie kneels to face the boy. "Yukine, you're staying with Miss and Mister Fullbuster, will you be okay with that?"

There is a moment, in the second before it takes for Yukine to answer, where Juvia feels her chest constrict and her stomach coil—she feels sick, suddenly, and expects the worst. It's mortifying and it's frightening and it's about other million things at the same time.

She wants to _flee_.

But Yukine nods, cheeks rose and the ghost of a smile in his lips, and Juvia can loosen herself.

She also happens to loosen her grip around Gray's arm as he hisses in relief.

They see Charlie out before returning to the living room, and they discover Yukine grabbing one of the books left on the coffee tables. He sees them coming in—and drops it.

The seal plushie also falls to the floor.

"I-I'm sorry," he blurts.

Gray chuckles, and Juvia picks up both objects to hand them back.

"It's okay. We don't want them to get dirty, do we?"

Yukine picks them and nods so earnestly that it draws an even bigger smile from her.

"Do you want to see your bedroom?" Gray interjects. "See if you like it."

The change of expression is absolutely _endearing._ His eyes open wide and clutches the plushie even tighter. He searches for an answer to his silent request with the same excited green eyes and excited toothy smile before making a mad dash towards the door with his name on it.

There's laughter in his wake, and she doesn't hesitate to follow it.

Except—

Juvia stops at the Yukine's room, and she watches how he's _marveling_ at the wholeness of it: the toys and the bed and anything that catches his attention and everything that belongs to him now.

Her heart beats—once, twice.

Gray stands behind her.

"What's it?"

It's not exactly a sob, but it's close, and Juvia feels the corner of her eyes prickling. She wipes it.

"Juvia _really_ thinks we can do this."

Gray holds her close, gently pushes her inside the room. "Sure we can."

. . .

"It's not a big deal," Gray mumbles. "It's just a little meeting. It won't last _10_ _minutes_."

"But it's the _first_ meeting."

"As I said," he grits, "not big deal."

Juvia heaves a sigh."Gray is _allowed_ to feel nervous."

He snorts. "With you being nervous it's enough. You cover for both of us."

She laughs, he smiles and grabs her hand under the table. They are both sweating buckets. Juvia can even sense the incessant pounding of her heart against the ribcage, but it's reassuring.

They are together in this.

Then, the door opens.

"There they come."

Charlie enters, and in front of him there is this tiny boy with rosy cheeks that looks so very afraid. His steps aren't hesitant when he approaches them, though; he sits down in the chair too big for him on his own, looks ahead, and his lips might be trembling, his arms shaking, but he still manages to squeak a 'hi' and a 'my name's Yukine' with a smile.

She gasps.

Gray looks at her, eyes blown wide open with mirth before wiping his gaze onto the boy that just entered the room and leans forward.

He squeezes her hand.

She grips back.

Juvia inhales—and exhales.

She _knows_.

 _This is it._

She has always recognized love at first sight after all.


	3. snuff out the light

Extremely edgy, tryhard shit. That's it. Stupid, clumsy and awkward, too.

Cheers!

* * *

 **snuff out the light**

 _There's no such things as friendship and love when you aren't allowed to lose_

They lose, that's the main thing.

They'd hoped they would win, hoped that their power would be enough, that their tactics would be enough, and so they had fought—but just hoping meant little, Gray discovered, and hope had a way of transforming into despair with the right twists and battles and betrayals.

Natsu Dragneel was, turns out, an indispensable piece in the big board game that was war, and when flames and cinder ascended in the exact same place Mavis had been, Gray _knew_ , knew that the implausible had happened. Knew that Zeref's threat had been the only truth. Knew that E.N.D. had only come to bite their asses.

After that everything came down one by one by one, until everyone dispersed, until everyone disappeared. " _Gray_. We have to _leave_ ," Lyon'd warned and tugged him away from the battlefield. Gray'd sneered at that because, tell him, how he could abandon his own friends out there in the massacre, and had been ready to tell Lyon to fuck off when the man growled, "You can't fucking believe we have a _chance_ , can you? Not against these monsters; not against _Zeref_. And Juvia's wounded, she _needs_ treatment. Are you planning to abandon her?"

Gray doubted, blamed himself for even doubting, and turned around to pick Juvia up from the ground, careful not to touch the injury that was piercing her left shoulder, careful not to show how much this decision was eating him away.

Juvia, even when running a fever, even when bleeding to death, of course picked on the crease that sullied his brow, picked on his unshed tears and tensed shoulders.

"We should go back," she said. "Juvia can endure it a bit more. She'll be fine. We should search for our friends first."

"No," Gray growled. "Not until you're good."

She whimpered. "Juvia's sorry. _So_ sorry."

"Yeah, I know," he said. "Don't be."

. . .

"It's a good thing, I believe, that Baba-sama made a backup plan just in case, don't you think?" Lyon sneered. "No one's thought of making a bolt hole just in case."

Gray snorted. Lyon was right, he had to admit even if reluctantly. If it weren't for Lamia Scale's tentative precautions, they couldn't have tended the injured and regrouped to plan a counter-attack against Zeref—Juvia'd certainly be in a worse state than the one she was in, sleeping on a comfortable bed, covered in gashes and with him hovering so he could take care of her in peace.

But, Gray also mused, that didn't mean he had to admit it aloud.

"Shut it."

Lyon huffed, looked down on Juvia and asked, "How is she?"

"Fine," Gray answered. "Needs rest and medication but otherwise fine. How're the people out there?"

"Not as fine, that's for sure." Lyon shrugged. "Last night only three people managed to arrive: two from Sabertooth and one from Pegasus."

"It's already been a week."

"I know," Lyon said. "Let's say there's not much hope for more people to come. What we got here is all there is."

Gray grunted, his brow darkening and his hand tightening around Juvia's. That didn't sound good but, then again, not many things did anymore.

"That's only _half_ of how many we were before. That cannot be." He paused, sighed, cursed, and then, "We're royally fucked."

"Indeed we are." Lyon chuckled grimly. "By the way, the old geezers are holding a meeting right now, to decide on what we should do from here on." Gray watched how Lyon's expression shut down, how his eyes flickered to the door and beyond. There was something the bastard wasn't telling, something that made his hands on his shoulder all the heavier and his gaze darker as he said, "Be prepared for anything."

. . .

Juvia woke up disoriented and disheartened, and when she asked about the rest, Gray wasn't sure how to answer. He choose to be truthful, grudgingly so, except when he didn't go into detail.

Erza, Wendy and Alzack and his family were somewhere in the bolt hole; no, there wasn't a wisp about Gajeel and Cana and Meredy. Lucy? Missing. The Strauss? Missing. Makarov did return, but his grandson not so much.

The rest?

Missing.

"Is it true," Juvia whispered with a complexion that was only turning paler for each dropped name, "that Natsu-san is E.N.D.? That Zeref took him?"

"Yeah."

"Oh."

Too much, Gray thought, this was too much to take in. To wake up to a world that was slowly but surely crumbling down piece by tiny piece—a world they were wholly unprepared for. Juvia for sure didn't seem to be ready for it all, neither was he, in truth, and her glistering eyes hinted as much.

"What…what are we going to do now?"Juvia asked, hands clenching and unclenching. "How are we to fight now?"

Gray shrugged, braced himself for the disappointment. "I dunno. I really don't know. Master Makarov and others're discussing 'bout it now."

"Juvia'd like if we look for Lucy-san and Cana-san and all our friends," she said with a weak smile that tried to be hopeful and failed." Maybe we could also search for a way to help Natsu-san. There's always a way for Fairy Tail."

Gray took her hand between his, mouth a thin line.

"That sounds good," was what he said, but they both knew far better than that now.

. . .

In retrospect, he should have listened to Lyon's warning, or, at least, paid more attention to it.

Master Makarov and the remaining old geezers approached him, face sterns and eyes full of artificial sorrow, and told him to do the impossible because they couldn't do it themselves. You're the only one, they'd said, and you're the single person who holds the adequate power to fight them. Your magic will help us—your magic was _made_ for this.

Demon Slayer Magic, after all, was meant to destroy the demons of Zeref that awaited outside, demons that were once upon a time best friends.

"You can't," he snarled at them, at Makarov, "tell me to kill Natsu. You can't decide that for me!"

We cannot, no, they answered, but think, boy, _think_ , what other hopes do we have now? What other choice do we have besides waiting around for our demise?

And then everything went very, very quiet and very grave and chocking—he holed himself up, holed his feelings to the point his concentration slipped and the dark, heavy marks that he learned to control at Polyusca's half year ago started to crawl back.

Juvia watched that happen, listened to Lyon and Makarov when they offered, and wailed in all her vehemence at the unfairness of it all.

"There's have to be another way, Juvia's sure," she gritted, tear-stricken. "We shouldn't kill our _friend_ , that's not what Fairy Tail stands _for_! We could always search for a _cure_ or—"

"Ay, Juvia-chan, there's the rub," Lyon cut in severely. Mournfully. "Who are we to decide that Natsu Dragneel's life is worth more than of those who are going to perish in the time we research to save him?"

"Sadly, young Lyon's right," Makarov said with mouth full of torment and a face wrinkled beyond his years. "This is a matter that goes beyond Fairy Tail. It's not a choice we can decide on."

Juvia's eye sharpened until they were nothing but dark pools, until the room chilled and humidity started to seep in, and her voice was so, so sad and so flat and so full of reproach, almost a reflection of how he felt then, her knuckles white with shame as she said words that hurt more than any blame.

"But it's a choice you're still making," she said.

. . .

He accepted the mission, eventually, because logic and the correct thing were feeble but still weighted more than friendship and the right thing, and Juvia huffed and accused and _yelled_ — yelled at him like she'd never done so—but she also let him stay next to her, let him be held by her and let him cry without really crying.

"It's like we're giving up, isn't it?" Gray said when the shouts and the pleas subsided. "We aren't even trying anymore."

She didn't answer. She did, however, hug him so close that half of his body was on her bed. He decided to go all the way in until they were touching shoulder by shoulder, hip by hip and their legs entangled.

Gray sighed, and asked, "Will you?"

Juvia stilled. "What?"

"Will you forgive me? After…all this."

She paused.

Inhaled. And exhaled.

"Juvia doesn't know," she answered at last. "But she'll try. Juvia can understand why Gray-sama and Master Makarov decided this, at least."

"But you don't like it."

"No. Juvia really doesn't."

Gray snorted. "Neither do I."

"Juvia knows."

He hummed at the acknowledgment, closed his eyes and thought about what was to come. His mind wandered back to Lucy and Happy and their friends, wondered if they'd ever think about him as a friend anymore, and then decided not to think at all.

He did, though, think about Juvia who was laying next to him, about Juvia who wasn't sure could forgive him, and it struck him down that they'd _change_ for the better or for the worse. He discovered that he wasn't sure anymore—that he didn't know what would become of them as they were because neither of them would be quite the same.

There was suddenly a deep ache in his chest that didn't quell, that didn't want to go away, so he had to ask:

"I wonder," he began cautiously, "will you still love me even after I give up?"

"Always," she said.

And her answer was so quick and precise, like reciting a law of the universe, that made his heart twist in the worst way. This might have been what hope felt like when there was nothing to hope for, what water for the thirsty man meant, and Gray discovered it _stung_.

But he held on, still, because it was addicting on its own way as much as it was damming, and prayed it would go away with time.

It didn't.

Instead, Juvia gripped him tight until dawn came and went, held him while whispering niceties and encouragements and it was right there, between Juvia's steady hands and body that almost felt like home but not quite, where his resolve steeled.

It was right there where he gave up, too—gave up on his friend, and on everything he'd ever believed in, and even on himself—, and swore he'd endure it, even if it meant killing Natsu Dragneel, so he did, and clung to Juvia all the way through.


	4. tell me a story

lol I don't even know what the hell this is. But it's been suprisingly easy to write it.

Enjoy!

* * *

 **tell me a story**

 _a story of love and happiness and good endings; they are few, I know, but there must be one_

 _Let's do this. The start—_

Juvia is weary and about to die, pending from an edifice with a tired arm. The battle has worn her out, the rain more so, and when water pools around her fingers, making smooth rock slippery, and there is only hard, crushing ground to cushion her at the bottom, she _knows_.

Her last glance is for the boy who is running towards her, arms outstretched to grab at her. He is trying to save her, his enemy, from fatality, his expression thunderous and a scream in the tip of his tongue, and her heart swells at that because, at last, there is someone who cares a bit for her.

He isn't fast enough reaching her, though, no one has ever been, and she—

falls.

The rain doesn't stop.

— _the end._

. . .

 _Wrong. Start again—_

He saves her, the rain disappear. She is grateful of him and follows her heart when she has never done so. She joins Fairy Tail and she makes friends and she shows her love like she truly intends to do for the first time. She lavishes him with adoration, places him above herself and declares to the world and to himself how much she would do for him.

It doesn't work.

He smolders under the weight that is her attention, a lifetime of tragedy and coldness making him cautious and distant. He refuses to go with her in this mission, refuses to eat with her in this bar, refuses to share with her a castle in the fantasy parade.

He pushes back when she gets too close.

And pushes.

And pushes.

And pushes.

And even though, sometimes, fewtimes, he dares to return the feeling, she's been deprived for human affection for too long to notice it as it happens, the instances as fleeting as the flapping of a babybird.

It's no wonder, then, when it sours her—makes her indecisive about him, about her feelings, about herself. Makes, sometimes, fewtimes, the rain return as temporary drizzle that goes away as fast as it's come.

When Grimoire Heart comes, when Meredy comes, links them in a death match, Juvia doubts.

There is doubt when she senses his coldness, the same coldness he has greeted her with, in her breast as the link around their wrists tightens. It startles her; it rattles her.

There is doubt when she fights with water and body and blood, her own warmth siphoning out of her as the sudden rains come back. She chokes.

There is doubt, also, when Meredy holds knife close to the heart, tear stricken, threatens over her life in exchange of hers and Gray's with a fury and conviction Juvia doesn't feel herself. Her love weavers before the hatred, her adoration becomes ashes.

She doubts, and the choice that in another story would have been easy and instantaneous, isn't.

She falters.

The knife slices across flesh and bones and life.

— _the end again._

. . .

 _Worse. Undo everything. Another start—_

He saves her. The rain goes away. She loves him. He lets her in a bit, and although he doesn't say 'yes', he doesn't say 'no' either.

It's good. It's nice. It's slow, most of all.

Then the darkness comes.

It creeps, like all darkness do, leisurely, cautiously.

First is his father. It raises him from the grave, returns breathe and beating and warm to the cold, dead body, and curses him with purpose. Father stalks the earth once again, a chanting logged into his heart, and although he can do little for the black magic keeping him standing chains him too, he keeps walking.

The darkness grows and fosters and expands inside him in the years to come. A parasite of its own, for darkness is nothing but parasite, eats away into reason and emotion, makes him less and more of what he has been once—a different person and still the same person.

When the day comes father and son meet one last time, fratricide is almost committed but delegated in the final instant. She cries for what she has done. He cries for what he has lost once again.

They both find comfort in one another.

It's slow, as always, but as sturdy as an oak tree carefully sowed under the sun of spring.

All is, they think naively, as well as it can be.

It crawls into him. The darkness, that cunning, patient thing. It searches a new home disguised as a blessing from the parent to the child. It grows again, because that's what the darkness does, and takes hold of the new body with a kinship unexpected from everyone.

It grows roots; it chants into his heart much like it did with the progenitor. The whispers are seductive, of power, of possibilities, its promised dreams come true, and he is such a desperate boy ready to carry on the promise made to a father and a teacher and himself.

He lets it grow roots in his wish and misery, lets it expand and lets it take hold of him, take hold of his reason before he comes around, as she watches and watches and watches.

She pleas and cries and demands. There is a tempest looming in the horizon, and the winds are strong and fast. She fears the worst, and the tragedy is about to come swiftly.

Not a minute, not a second, to be wasted.

She starts by trying to convince him with guilt. Look at this world, look at our friends, look at yourself, are you going to give it up, really, she asks, and he never answers. He listens, looks at her hungrily for he knows his time's thinning, but never answers. She deflates.

Maybe, she thinks, this is what he really wants.

She continues by trying to convince him with motives. Help always come for those who search it, you're strong enough as it is, she prods, and he tells her not to worry. He listens, smiles languidly, playfully, for the end is nearing, but he always says not to worry. She wonders.

Maybe, she thinks, this is what I should help him with.

She ends by trying to convince him with love. I love you and you love me, let me be with you, let me help you, she cries, and he doesn't give up. He listens, holds her so close his warm seeps into her, his hunger becoming hers for they both sense the dusk, but he never gives up. She surrenders.

Maybe, she thinks, I should join with him.

He tells her as much.

And one day he is taking her in their bed.

And one day she is the one taking him.

It's despair. It's dejection. It's fast, most of all.

Too fast.

Then a storm shakes them before their notice.

The darkness's been waiting, like all of its kind does, patiently.

Reason has long been eaten but emotions have only been brewing, fattening and stuffing, topping with cherries and cream. Not only of one but of a pair, and love's always been as big as the universe itself, as powerful as magic.

Love has always been, also, shared, like a disease, and share it does their bodies and souls and minds—even those hidden black secrets that have been patiently waiting are shared, and when in the beginning there have been only one, now there are two.

It's a banquet worth of the king of parasites, and the darkness devours and feasts.

— _another end._

. . .

 _Wrong, wrong, wrong. Start again, and again, and again—_

They meet too soon and they don't connect. They meet too late and they don't kindle.

She doesn't love him on occasion, as few as they are. When she does, though, her passion edges her to madness; she makes the wrong choices and decisions, errs more than she cares to count and drives him far away from her grasp.

He doesn't love her many times too many. When he does, though, his wariness impedes fruition of any kind; he doesn't choose nor act and lets everything slip between his fingers and looks back at what it could have been but never was with wistful yearning.

She dies for him here and there and far there, killed by knifes, by darkness, by dragons, by time itself. By him.

He dies for her here and there and far there, killed by knifes, by darkness, by dragons, by time itself. By her.

Sometimes, they don't even know each other. They circle around round and round and round, but their paths never quite cross, never quite intertwine. They are close, at times, so close they could touch if they just—

reached

out

for

the

other

—but they don't.

They walk on, live on, without knowing, without feeling. They find other men and women who to share everything with, they can't always wait for the one after all, and they in no way understand why it doesn't feel right, why there's always something missing.

They are happy when they die of old age, those times, but never peaceful. Never calm.

Sometimes, they never discover the depths of the what could have been and that's that.

— _end._

. . .

 _No. Never. Last chance. Don't mess this one. Start—_

Their once upon a time is nor late nor soon; it comes just in time in a rainy day that becomes a sunny day once he grabs her hand firmly and doesn't let go.

They grow close, bit by little bit. He makes concessions here and there— let her be close to you, let her accompany you, let her love you—and then he grows so fond of her, he opens his heart one step at a time, and she sees this and classifies it for what it truly is, saves it for herself like the precious jewel it is.

She tempers her passion and he becomes brave in the meantime they fight wizards and dragons and evilness incarnate. They die and they live again. They grow separate as much as they grow together until, much like a bloom in winter, love blossoms just in the right pace and with the right strength.

Even when darkness knocks on their door and demise is imminent, they hold it at bay. They hasten together, they fight together, they live the drama and the despair and the mania together—not unscathed, maybe, but whole.

Love is what allows them to stand, to fight. To hope.

It makes them weak, but it also makes them strong.

So when the world crumbles around them, when the future is uncertain and the lines between good and evil become blurry, when the final fight approaches and the enemy rises before them, they continue to love.

And love they do.

. . .

 _Well done._

 _The end can wait._


End file.
